


A Dream That's Not a Dream

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Future Fic, PWP, Warning: Incest, legends shout out, spoilers for series 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 07:40:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur remembers his past when he sees Morgana again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dream That's Not a Dream

There's this dream that Arthur has. This recurrent dream.

He lifts up his hips, the tip of his cock pushing into her wetness. She keeps him down, strong and stubborn. 

"It's good,” she says, "but don't spill inside me."

He knows he mustn't. Too dangerous. Father. He will have his hide.

Yet she makes herself comfortable in his lap, twisting her hips above him, so she's taking a bit more of him with each pass. It's hot like burning, like the sweat that blinds him. It's so hot it sears his guts. He feels her stretch around him to suck his thickness in; he feels her as she squeezes his length till he's wrapped snug inside her.

To stay collected, Arthur drags slow breaths in and out; his hips hitch up in tiny little upward surges. She bears down on him while lying on top of him, clamping hard where they're joined, her mouth digging hard at the muscles of his shoulder.

Her hair covering them both, tickling him where they tumble over him.

His hand wonders up her her thigh, under her gauze night gown, her skin as soft as it is pale as moonlight. 

He blindly swipes his hand inwards, thumbs around the base of his cock where it penetrates her, feels her throbbing flesh around him. She's so wet she's drenching him. It dribbles down his prick when she lifts up; there's so much, he marvels at it. At her body that's a secret to him.

Always so close, always so distant, unknowable, a cypher. A mystery in the shape of a woman.

He picks her moistness up with his thumb, where it glistens in its transparency, tastes it. Makes her kiss him. When she's done plundering his mouth with her tongue, she bites him and he tastes blood. She must be tasting herself.

She sinks down again; she lifts up, calling the shots, twisting herself on top of him, her thighs locked like a vice around his sides.

She shifts; he slips out. With her on her knees, he runs one finger up and down her slit. It pulses open. He flicks her mound with his thumb. He parts her; pushes two fingers deep inside her where he's just been. Jabs hard. Again. And again. She throws her head back and cries out like a prowling predator.

It's almost too much, the sight of her on top of him. Her lower body still draped in the fabric cascading around them, one of her breasts slipping out of her bodice. Just one. Ivory and gold.

He can't resist. He guides his cock inside her again, he's dribbling himself, leaking just as she's bin ever since this started. "Please," he says, the man who never says 'please," not to her. Not to anyone but his own father.

"You're welcome," she teases him. A wolfish grin revealing her perfect white teeth. “Go ahead, Arthur.”

He slowly strikes up again, seeking her warmth. She pulses around him. It drives him crazy. Mad with this fog, this thirst for her. His heart hammers in his chest, throbbing out its rhythm in his neck. Reason gone. Thoughts rarefying. She grinds against him, driving him to buck up, arching her back, her knees spurring him on as if he's one of her thoroughbreds. 

He grabs her hips, stroking her inside with his cock faster and faster, the drag and tug of it around her flesh -- moist, hot, tight -- makes him bite back whimpers and moans not worthy of a prince. 

"Come, Arthur," she orders harshly. "Or are you too afraid of daddy to?"

"Are you?" he grunts. "Are you?"

She does something; tightens the muscles she has inside. He sees white. He comes, feeling every little pulse of his cock as he fills her.

He doesn't get her with child; a stroke of luck his young self is too proud to acknowledge as such. He passes it off as a decision based on weighing the odds.

Arthur often dreams this dream. Except it's not a dream. 

It's a memory of an action performed such a long time ago it's almost become mythical. An action that, in light of home truths learned later, has made of him something he never thought he'd be.

The memory of that night has always sat in a corner of his mind. One no one is privy to. Not his wife. Not Merlin. Certainly none of his knights knows. Thank the gods his father never guessed. 

He remembers now because he's alone on his back, deep in the forest. A green mist's hovering around him, thick as soup, swirling above him and painting half horrific shapes in the mist. The past seems like a safe haven, a time of peace.

She walks out of a cluster of trees, hair a tangle, pale like a ghost, wrapped in black, as beautiful as she's always been. He's never forgotten.

"King Arthur," she says, rolling her name off her tongue as if having him there is a treat. There's contempt in it. It still hurts, her contempt. After everything, her hatred hurts.

"Morgana," he says.

She stalks up to him, black cloak billowing after her even in the absence of any breeze, and kneels by his side. She lifts the chain mail, lowers his breeches and kneads him to half-hardness while she chats about their Camelot childhood. Her voice is light, a mockery of the polite tones she used in the past.

"Remember this, Arthur?" she says, playing with the head.

Arthur's cock fattens in her hand.

He bites his lips, doesn't say that he does, and falls into his memories.

"Remember how when you quarrelled with your father you came to my chambers?”

He does. Gods have mercy, he does.

_“Let me lead the knights in battle, Father?”_

_“That's a categorical 'no', Arthur.”_

And he'd go to her. The lady in her gilded cage.

_“I refuse to countenance that princess, Father.”_

_“You will see her and be polite to her.”_

And he'd go.

_“Why will you never talk about my mother?”_

Silence, a wave of a hand, a dismissal without words.

And he'd go.

“Each time we'd push it a little further,” says Morgana. “For each of his reprimands, for each of his slights, you had an act of defiance up your sleeve. Except you didn't know it was defiance. Would never had dreamt of it as such. It was just your approval seeking ways.” She fingers his cock, knuckling the underside. “At first you just wanted someone to tell you how right you were. To console you. Without blaming Uther of course. Hail and brimstone if someone dared vilify the King's name." She treases beads of come out of him. "You wanted someone to comfort you and puff up your ego. Without being seen to be doing so." She digs a nail into his slit. The flare of pain is bright but brings him a forgotten pleasure. "Then your lust addled body started calling the shots. Poor baby. But I knew what it was."

She rakes up her skirts and sinks on him.

“I knew it was defiance.” She trills out a laught. "Though you were pretty, I'll admit. All worked up into rage."

Arthur sobs out as he experiences this again. Sobs out his raking desire for her. She slams down on him, harsh but splendid.

"Shush," she says. "For old times' sake."


End file.
